


starfucker

by Ruriruri



Category: KISS (US Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 18:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17493401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruriruri/pseuds/Ruriruri
Summary: Gene vies for his 200th lay for his Polaroid collection, but he's not willing to leave the hotel to get it. Luckily, Paul volunteers.





	starfucker

Gene’s introduction to America almost twenty years prior had been like a kid moving to Disneyland. Everything was bigger in America. Everything was better in America. Everything had that candy-coated glaze of promise, still hanging heavy and dazzling in his heart: here, you can make it; you just need the drive and the smarts and the guts. Here is a dream you can snatch up, if you want it badly enough.

He had tried to explain it once, when half the band was more maudlin than full-on drunk, but Ace and Peter both had zoned out entirely and Paul, for all he was first-generation on both sides, for all he’d been hoping for commonalities, didn’t understand either.

“You’re telling me the exact same thing my parents did.”

“They were right.”

“They wanted me to get there through college, Gene. They didn’t tell me I could do whatever the hell I wanted and succeed. It’s bullshit, man. You’re too—the American Dream stuff might’ve been true during Ellis Island and all that, but it’s not now.”

He’d looked at Paul, really looked at him, hoping to find something beyond the cynicism. He didn’t. Paul might as well have been one of his sixth graders for all he’d pay attention without the threat of penalty.

“You don’t get it. You don’t get it because you’ve never lived anywhere else.” Never lived how he had. Selling fruit in the streets with his mother. Living on government rations. Living scared. Paul’s rare, mopey accounts of his own childhood were blissful in comparison. Whatever bullying he’d received, he’d never gone hungry. Never been afraid for his life. He had no idea what a blessing that was. None.

It just confirmed what Gene had already known. They shared a faith, but not a background. Hell, Paul hadn’t even had his bar mitzvah. None of that cultural belonging tied the two of them together. Maybe not even personal belonging, either. Gene was an outsider even in his own band.

Paul just shook his head and shrugged.

“They said that, too.”

So Gene had gradually left that kind of serious talk behind over the course of the tours. It wasn’t worth it; he knew the other three weren’t intellectuals, but he was starting to think they were actually morons. Ace and Peter were busy getting drunk, stoned, or both before and after concerts—hit him at just the right time, maybe a full moon, and Paul would indulge, too—and Rush’s guys were just leading them further astray. Gene felt like trying to get Bill to get them to tour with the Carpenters next, as if that would cut down on the antics.

As for himself, well, since he couldn’t manage any stimulating conversation with his bandmates, he was settling eagerly for stimulation with his groupies. Something else that was bigger and better in America—the size of its women’s breasts. Must’ve been the fluoride in the water. He’d been in the process of chatting up two girls in Ace’s room when one of them had made the tremendous mistake of taking the communal laundry bag off Alex’s head during one of his particularly drunken comedy routines.

It was like flicking the papal mitre off the Pope’s head. Worse, it was like unmasking the Lone Ranger. Alex and Ace had, predictably, gone ballistic and chased both of the girls out of the hotel room. Gene had followed them at a distance, only to hear them mumble about “fuckin’ scary rockstars” and see them digging in their purses for payphone change to call their boyfriends. Well. That settled that.

That settled plenty, except he was still half-hard. He could hear Ace and Alex and Neil whooping from the room, and he knew that a new comedy routine from the bag was already underway. Gene grunted to himself and dug the key out of his jeans pocket and let himself back in his room.

“Paul? You still in here?”

“Hey.” Paul looked up from the T.V., frowning. His hair was wet, and he wasn’t wearing anything beyond a loosely-tied blue terrycloth bathrobe Gene could’ve sworn had been Paul’s only constant companion since they’d started touring. Like every other member of the band—every member except Gene—he lacked the innate shame to even yank on a pair of boxers at the sight of a non-groupie visitor. “What’re you doing here, Gene? Thought you were picking up those girls in Ace’s room.”

“The bag threw them out.”

“The ba—oh, yeah,” Paul said, snorting. “He’s high as shit, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried. But I am holding it against him.” Gene paused. “I thought you’d be back to your room by now, too.”

Paul shrugged and went over to turn up the volume on the T.V. An Easy Bake Oven commercial was playing, of all things, the little girl onscreen spreading frosting on the cake. So banal it was a little annoying. Looking at him, though, Gene realized Paul was just trying to catch the jingle at the end.

“I was gonna, then I took a nap and a shower.”

“No girls?”

“No girls.”

Not that much of a surprise. Paul could be indifferent, downright cold to company, which had always struck Gene as a little annoying, if not potentially disastrous. Couldn’t be merrily flamboyant onstage and then aloof as soon as he walked back to the dressing room. Bad publicity in the making. He’d be pleasant enough during what few interviews they’d scored as a band, but it was obvious he didn’t actually want to do them. Gene wondered if Paul was getting more egotistical, or if that latent shyness was just setting his nerves on edge. Paul was the only deep-down introvert in the whole band. He’d have to get over it at some point.

Besides, even if Paul wasn’t as assiduous about getting girls as he was, he still managed to have one in his bed at least half their tour nights. So if he was lonesome, that was his own fault. Paul walked over to the set to turn up the volume one more time—God, he always had it up too loud. Knowing why didn’t make it much less aggravating.

“Really not my idea of a thrilling evening.”

Paul flopped back on the bed.

“What, because of the girls? Just get a taxi and go to a nightclub. There’s gotta be one around here somewhere.” A pause, and a stifled yawn. “Where the hell are we tonight, anyway? Austin?”

“Austin was last night. Tonight’s Corpus Christi,” Gene mumbled.

“Oh, right. Good thing they remind me beforehand. Last time I fucked up the city they were almost rioting.”

“You told Pittsburgh they were a wonderful audience—”

“And it was actually Kansas City. I know, Gene.” Running his hands through his hair, looking more like a damp poodle than a human being, Paul sighed. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve told Charleston they were Pittsburgh.”

Gene snorted and sat down next to him on the bed. Paul was splayed out on his back as if it were one of their lousier photoshoots, but he at least moved his legs to give Gene more room.

“We’d be mounted on some redneck’s wall.”

“With or without the makeup?”

“With. You think they’d dare? It’s like yanking off Batman's cowl.”

Paul laughed, shaking his head.

“Some of the girls don’t even want the makeup off. Don’t you think that’s weird? Like…” Paul was considering, or trying to. Always a bad sign, because Paul tended to trail and never get to the point, in public and in private. Gene had been taking spokesman duties during interviews and news stories out of necessity, not desire. Paul could’ve stuck to a script, sure, except they didn’t have one yet, and Peter and Ace would just bungle things with the press, Gene was positive of it. “Like, okay, if I’m gonna fuck someone, I don’t want the pretense.”

“You mean you don’t want to be Starchild for them?”

“No, not… not exactly. I mean, I don’t mind, but… you ever feel like they’re conning you? No, not… conning, but… they’re not being real, you’re not being real…”

“Paul, if you want an honest relationship, I don’t know why the hell you’re fucking groupies.”

Paul glanced at Gene then, and snorted. His hair had fallen in his eyes, and he just blew it back with a breath.

“I’m not complaining, I’m just saying I wanna be real with somebody sometime. Don’t you?”

“God, no.” Gene paused, leaning back on his arms on the bed. “You wanna be real with someone, be real with your shrink.”

From the corner of his eye, Gene saw Paul’s face fall slightly. Shit. He’d forgotten Paul had one of those. Or used to, at least. Gene opened his mouth, not to apologize, exactly, just explain, but Paul started back in, oddly unruffled, before he could manage.

“Give it five minutes and you can watch the Johnny Carson show with me.”

Gene groaned.

“You know I could’ve done that at home, right?”

“Well, yeah, but here you don’t have to pick up your own towels.” Paul paused. “Not that you do that anyway, but…”

“Move.”

“Okay, okay.” Paul shifted over again amiably as Gene scooted in. Soon enough, Ed was introducing Johnny Carson with all his usual insane vigor, as if he hadn’t been on air every single weekday for the past decade. Maybe Carson wouldn’t be such a bad avenue for KISS, if Casablanca could up their notoriety enough for him to consider it. There didn’t seem to be a method of self-promotion left they hadn’t at least tried to stoop to over the last two years. Even immolation was only barely out of bounds. 

Beside him, Paul was paying more attention to Carson’s Carnac the Magnificent routine than it probably deserved that night—Carnac was already spouting off fake curses to the audience.

“What’re you pissed about?”

“I’m not pissed.”

“Yeah, you are.”

Gene heaved a sigh. Carson’s studio audience laughed loudly in the background.

“I had a big number coming up.”

“A big number?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Tonight I was gonna bang my 200th chick.”

“You’re _counting_ them?”

Gene gave Paul a look that was a cross between bewildered and long-suffering, a look he used to reserve for the slowest of his students when they were scrawling out one-step equations.

“Of course I’m counting them. What did you think the Polaroids were for?”

“I thought you just took pictures of the ones you liked, not every girl you banged!”

“No! It’s a record for posterity, Paul.”

“You’ve probably got twenty posterity running around already,” Paul said with a snort. “I know you don’t wrap it up half the time.”

“They’ll have the most successful dad since Charlemagne.”

“Who?”

“The fifth Beatle.”

“Oh, shut up, Gene.” Paul twisted off a couple of rings as he spoke, scrambling over Gene to set them on the nightstand. The small plinks against the plywood sounded oddly final. Paul returned to his spot on the bed immediately afterwards. “Nothing stopping you from going to a club, you know.”

Gene shook his head.

“I don’t want to deal with drunks. Maybe Ace and Peter don’t care, but I’m not running the risk of her passing out before we get to the hotel.”

“There’s always at least five sober girls at the disco. You’re just being lazy.” Paul clasped his fingers together, stretched out his arms with a groan. “You really want to hit number two hundred tonight?’

“That was the idea.”

Paul looked contemplative. Gene was always thrown off the rare times that look flitted across his face, because ever since he’d met Paul, he’d been fairly convinced the man didn’t think so much as base his life off shaky impulses. And not like Gene himself did, either, not in terms of libertine conquests. Paul was more like an anxious, gangly dog, as apt to hump a girl’s leg as turn tail and hide in a corner. He tried not to let it show, but five years of knowing him, and two years of being a door away, at best, meant Gene knew better. 

Clearly, though, Paul was thinking now. Those hormone-addled synapses were firing, fully oblivious to Carson’s latest jab toward President Ford. He was even yanking his hair back and squeezing those last drops of water out onto the carpet as he turned to look Gene dead in the eye.

“Give me your room key.”

“What?”

“Give me your room key.”

It was perched next to the T.V. set. One key hanging from a small metal hoop. Gene got up and handed it over, eyebrow raised questioningly. Paul spun the keyring absently around his finger. That thoughtful look hadn’t faded from his expression yet, but his mouth twitched just slightly up.

“Now get your camera.”

“Paul, what the hell?”

“Number two hundred just volunteered.” 

Gene stared.

“You’re kidding me. Tell me you’re kidding me.”

“I’m not kidding!” Paul was still spinning the key. “You want your two hundredth lay and you don’t want to leave the hotel to get it.”

“That doesn’t mean—shit, Paul, you can’t just—”

“Can’t what?”

Paul was looking at him with an expression so obnoxiously blithe and amused that Gene almost wanted to snatch back the key and tell him to stop screwing around. But that might only encourage him, at this point. Those wheels were turning to some inevitably questionable conclusion. God, they all had to stop spending so much time at those raucous parties, no matter how good they were for filling up his photo album. They were giving Paul disturbing ideas. Gene cleared his throat, tried to explain.

“That’s not something you volunteer for.”

“No?”

“Paul, c’mon, it’s pretty damn qu—”

“You’ve still got a hard-on, Gene.”

Shit. Gene’s eyes went straight to Paul’s crotch, almost accusingly, but that bathrobe was loose enough around his frame that he couldn’t tell. That was it, he couldn’t tell. It couldn’t be that Paul was shooting all this bullshit, trying to get a rise out of Gene, while he was completely soft. No. Couldn’t possibly be.

“Don’t flatter yourself, damn it, you didn’t see their tits—"

The only solution was to follow along. Keep on going, and keep on going, until Paul backed off. He would; Gene knew he would. Then they’d finish up on Johnny Carson and bitch some more about girls or about Peter and Ace or about Paul’s more recent exes (one of whom had been sleeping with Joe Namath, which seemed to bother Paul on some weird intrinsic level that Gene frankly didn’t understand) before finally calling it a night. Pass out like the lousiest excuses for rockstars he’d ever heard of.

“I’m not flattering myself. I’m just saying you’ve still got a hard-on.”

“Shut up, Paul.”

Paul didn’t shut up. Of course he didn’t. He just started humming the chorus of “Strutter” as he stretched out on the bed, ankles dangling from the edge. Gene shifted before getting up entirely and pulling his suitcase out from under the bed, taking out his camera. Plenty of shots left. He’d had way higher hopes for Corpus Christi than Paul Stanley on his bed. He gritted his teeth, willing Paul to back out, and back out now, except he could feel Paul’s eyes on him as he got back to his feet, camera in hand. Could feel the interest there, the intrigue. Paul was going to match him. At least for now, Paul was going to match him.

“How do they usually pose for it?”

“Between their tits.”

Paul frowned.

“I mean, I can try, but…” and he dropped the key on the dead center of his chest. The key looked like a forlorn found object a bird had tried to line its rather furry nest with. “No. No, that’s not gonna work.”

“God, no.”

“Maybe I should just hold it.” Paul picked the key up, frowning. “Or… do you want more of an interesting angle, should I have the edge facing the camera?”

“Paul, I’m taking a picture. This isn’t your art portfolio here.”

“Maybe I _shouldn’t_ just hold it.”

Gene groaned.

“Okay, hang on.” Paul got up and headed for the adjoining bathroom. Gene could hear the water running almost immediately, and a few seconds later, Paul returned, bathrobe still tied closed. “All right, ready.”

“Where’s the key?”

Paul raised his tongue. The key peeked out, tarnished bronze on pink, and Gene groaned.

“You’re gonna choke on that.”

“Iy-ull be ’ine—” Paul nearly spat out the key. Gene swallowed a laugh as Paul took the key out, wiped it on the bedsheets, and shook his head. “All right, all right, I’ll just have it in my hand.”

“Okay. Then sit down.”

Paul sat down on the bed. Gene picked up the camera, zooming in carefully, as Paul held the key between his forefinger and thumb. He looked like he was about to crack up. The camera flashed, the picture ejected, and soon Paul had snatched it away, shaking it vehemently as the image started to appear.

“Wait—wait, give it here, I’ve gotta fill out your name at the bottom.” Honestly, Gene was aiming for initials. P. S. could stand for anything

“I’ll fill it out! God knows I don’t charge for autographs.” The developing image, though, was getting clearer and far more disappointing. Paul’s face wasn’t visible. Instead, Gene had taken a close-up of the key itself, leaving not more than an inch of Paul’s index finger in the shot. “ _Gene!_ Oh, fuck you!”

“It’s gonna ruin the photo album if I’ve got a hundred ninety-nine chicks in there and then you!”

“It’s gonna make it the best album ever. Take it again.”

Gene hesitated.

“C’mon, take it again.”

Gene gave him a long-suffering look. Paul started fluffing out his hair as if this were a photoshoot instead of the prelude to the most questionable conquest either had ever attempted. Raising the camera once more, Gene was sorely tempted not to warn him first before he pressed the button.

“Fine. Three, two, one—"

Paul popped the keyring right back into his mouth the second before the camera flashed. The key dangled between his lips like the sultriest provocation. He grabbed the photo before Gene could voice a protest, holding it up for both of them to see.

This time Gene had caught him. Really caught him. Paul leaning in from the picture, poised and eager, broad hands resting on the bed. There was a bit of glare from the key in his mouth, a wanting, amused look in his eyes that the slightly-out-of-focus shot didn’t hide at all. But Paul was still disappointed.

“Aw, fuck, it’s a little blurry.” 

“No, it’s fine.” 

“One more.”

Reluctantly, Gene picked up the camera again. Paul shifted on the bed, this time propped up on his elbows, one knee raised. The bathrobe was riding up, showing more of both thighs than Gene cared to see. But it wasn’t indecent yet. Just—

_Snap._

 _Snap._

“Safety shot,” he insisted when Paul glanced at him curiously. He raised his hand before Paul could reach for the developing photos, gathered them both up and watched the image emerge. Clear this time, perfectly crisp. Maybe Paul nerved out a bit during interviews, but in front of a camera he was golden. Absolutely golden. Dragging the attention away from everyone else in the picture, clawing it away with only a pair of pursed lips and big, dark eyes. It was annoying during KISS photoshoots, but here, with only him, only him on the bed, it was something else. Something Gene didn’t want to own up to as he stared, fascinated, from one shot to the next, finally setting them both down on the bed without a word. He barely heard the next words out of Paul’s mouth, a come-on that shouldn’t have been a come-on at all.

“Let’s keep on.”

“Keep… keep on?”

“Yeah,” and Paul laughed, turned to his side just a bit more, hand running against the edge of his robe. “You’ve got the film for it. You wanna?”

The words seemed to reverberate in his brain. _You wanna._ An offer. A proposition. Unbelievable. Totally unbelievable. Paul couldn’t be doing this to him, couldn’t be unraveling him—upping the ante, that was all it was, just upping the ante. Yeah. Yeah.

Gene’s fingers fidgeted before he picked up his camera again, feeling some stupid warmth spread across his face. Dimly he could hear Carson questioning the night’s special guest with all his usual slick irreverence, barely a patter in the background. Two words, too easy and casual, and all he could manage was a nod before raising the viewfinder to his eye for another shot as Paul offered up his most shameless smirk for the camera.

He kept on. God only knew why. He’d been with more photogenic girls. There was nothing alluring to him about how Paul was posing. Awkward, whiny Stanley Eisen, that douchey high school senior who always looked stoned—there was nothing sexual about him. Six years down the road, he was still that kid, no matter if he’d changed his name and curtailed his diet, no matter if he’d grown out his hair even more and stolen some slivers of confidence. No matter if he was slowly peeling open the bathrobe, revealing inch upon inch of his broad, hairy chest as Gene snapped shot after shot in a mindless rhythm. No matter if he was wearing that sex-soaked smile and tilting his head just so, languid and eager.

No matter if he reached up and trailed his long fingers down Gene’s arm. As Gene leaned over, as Gene got on the bed, the camera became the only thing left between them, the only piece of distance. The only separation. The photos were spilling out onto the bed like scattered confetti, each one revealing a little more and a little more. 

By the tenth shot Paul was toying with the tie of his bathrobe, lying on his side, back arched. The robe had slid down past his shoulder, exposing his rose tattoo. There was a half-healed bite mark just beneath it and Gene couldn’t help but wonder which groupie had left it there. 

By the fifteenth he’d cast the robe aside entirely. Gene’s hands were sweaty against the camera, thumb slipping on the button. He was on his knees now, Paul sprawled next to him, back against the covers, completely exposed and half-hard, hips arching up against nothing at all.

“Paul.” Gene barely recognized his own voice, the heaviness there. He was still looking at Paul through the viewfinder, still watching his head raise and his lip curl from a distance as he answered.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t pose like that.”

“Why not? Too provocative for you?”

“Not provocative enough.”

 _Snap._ Paul bristled slightly—there’d been no countdown this time—but then he reached a hand out, sliding it against Gene’s thigh as the photo ejected, forgotten.

“Oh, yeah? You got me in a good mood, Gene, I’m open to critique—” 

Gene put his hand on top of Paul’s and lowered the camera, setting it down on the edge of the bed. Looking at him full on, all barriers gone, those still-damp curls and those big brown eyes and the teasing strokes of his hand rubbing his thigh, inching over, over, to grip and fondle his hard-on through his pants. Gene sucked in a breath, fingers curling around Paul’s and pushing his hand aside, gaze never wavering from his face. 

“They don’t have me in them.”

He didn’t give Paul a chance to answer. Barely a chance to open his mouth before Gene leaned in and over him, cupping his chin and crushing their lips together. Paul’s mouth tasted like the cherry tarts room service had brought down a couple hours ago, the ones he’d said he wouldn’t eat, and his lips were chapped and hot under his.

Paul was shoving his tongue in Gene’s mouth before Gene could even manage it, reaching up to yank Gene on top of him, rocking up against him desperately as his hands dug beneath Gene’s shirt. All coyness, all pretense utterly shattered. Gene laughed throatily at Paul’s freneticness, but he wasn’t any better, fingers fumbling with his own shirt, trying to peel it off while Paul’s hands roved over his back, short nails leaving light pink lines across his skin. His pants and boxers were off only moments later, Paul’s help no help at all, wriggling and rutting against him as he tried to unzip himself and toss the clothes aside. 

It was a tangle of limbs, imprecise, messy. Paul nibbling at Gene’s neck, groaning as Gene’s hand went for his dick, stroking him hastily. Time seemed to collapse on itself. Gene didn’t hear the T.V. anymore or the raucousness from Ace’s room or the groans from Peter’s—all he heard was Paul gasping beneath him, all he saw was Paul flushed and willing and wanting, mumbling for him, indistinct rambles that sank somewhere deep inside him. A feeling he was chasing. A feeling that he might belong after all, only for a moment, a feeling that he might belong with him. 

Gene grabbed the lube from the dresser, slicked himself up before turning Paul on his stomach, figuring that might be easier. His fingers were slippery as he started to prepare, inexpertly at best. The backdoor wasn’t his favorite with girls, honestly; too much prep for a less-exciting finish, at least for them. But Paul wasn’t going to be that way, already back to bucking up, relaxing into his touch as he eased himself inside him. Gene reached around, breaths heavy as he grasped Paul’s cock again, stroking unevenly with his own thrusts, grunting hard as every twitch and jerk of his hips drove them both closer, closer—

Paul came first with a low groan, spilling into Gene’s hand, sliding against the sheets. It wasn’t long for Gene after that, just a few more thrusts at best before orgasm coursed through him, utterly blinding. He all but collapsed against Paul after, eyes shut, panting against his sweaty skin as he pulled out, draping an arm haphazardly across Paul’s back before he fell asleep.

\---

Everything was better in America. Even, Gene assumed, the morning afters.

Most of his involved asking the girl to leave before the crack of dawn. In fact, Gene had half-expected Paul to be gone by the time he woke up, slinking back to his own hotel room to clear his head of last night’s madness, but he wasn’t. Instead, Paul was leaning against the nightstand, bathrobe back on, eating a bowl of Cheerios. The usual hotel breakfast spread rested precariously on a tray on top of the T.V.  
“Morning, Gene.” Paul clinked the spoon against the ceramic bowl with every scoop.

“… Morning.” 

Gene sat up slowly, reaching over the edge of the bed for his clothes and tugging them on, at an utter loss for words. He could feel Paul’s gaze on him, was sure it was amused and not worried. Not concerned. Had to be. He cleared his throat, finally managing to string a sentence together.

“Where’s my camera?”

“On the table. Figured one of us was gonna step on it otherwise.”

“And the pictures?”

Paul grinned and pulled open the nightstand drawer. There, beside the lube, were the photos, in order, neatly stacked.

“Right here.” He handed them over. “Oh, I couldn’t figure out which one you liked, so…”

Gene sifted through the photos, nail digging against the paper’s edge. At first, he was just looking at the images, turning one after another in his hand. His own documentary of the entire evening’s descent, up until that debauched climax.

Their climax.

But then he looked at the lettering beneath, and he stared, eyes wide. Every photo, every single photo, was signed in bold black scrawl across the bottom:

_“Paul Stanley, #200.”_

_“Paul Stanley, #201.”_

_“Paul Stanley, #202.”_

_“Paul Stanley, #203.”_

_“Paul Stanley, #204….”_

“Paul, what did you—”

Paul set down the bowl of cereal.

“Oh, yeah. Well, you said you couldn’t have an album with a hundred ninety-nine girls and then me. So I figured I’d just even things out.”

“Even things out.”

“Yeah.” Paul dug through Gene’s luggage, finding his teasing comb, and started to drag it through his bushy hair. “That was sixteen pictures. Number two hundred’s taken care of, so that just leaves us fifteen more.”

“Fifteen more.”

“At least.”

It took a minute to dawn on Gene. More than a minute, honestly. Paul had averted his eyes, the only sound the tugging of the comb, when Gene finally answered, slow smile spreading across his face as he reached over to yank at one of Paul’s stray curls.

“You’ve got a huge ego, anyone ever tell you that, Paul?”

Paul laughed, brushing his hand away, offering up a grin of his own.

“All the damn time.”


End file.
